Taming the Dragon
A/N: Written for the OhSam Comment Fic Meme on LiveJournal, for the prompt: Dean finds out Sam has become addicted to some kind of very hard street drug (heroin, meth, cocaine, something like that) and tries (with or without success, surprise me) to help him kick. Any season, or even pre-series, doesn't matter.
"You don't understand," Sam begs, hands shaking enough to rattle the handcuffs holding him to the bed, but Dean understands, alright. Damn straight, he understands.
He understands that Dad will be back in a week and he needs to fix this before then, 'cause if Sam thinks this is bad, it's nothing compared to what the wrath of John Winchester will bring him. He understands that his freakin' genius brother is actually a moron and, as much as Sam tries to argue, he damn well understands exactly what those marks on Sam's arm are from.
"Shut up, Sam," Dean says, deliberately not looking away from the TV. Nope, not interested. Sam can bitch at him all he wants but the little idiot got himself into this mess and he can damn well deal with it himself.
"Dean, please. You can't do this to me."
Watch me, Dean thinks, pretending that re-runs of Married With Children are far more interesting than paying attention to his dimwit 17-year-old brother detoxing on the bed beside him.
"Dean, come on, you can't... you can't just..."
On the TV Peggy's having a go at Al for... something. Okay, so Dean's not actually paying attention, no matter how much he's trying to, but seriously, how the hell is he meant to keep up when Sam's frikkin' moaning at him every five seconds? He's sorely tempted to just duct tape the brainless, idiotic, so freaking stupid that there's not even a word for it, kid's mouth shut but he figures Sam's probably got more throwing up to do and as pissed off as he is right now, he's not entirely sure that he wants his brother to choke to death on his own vomit while Dean sits less than ten feet away and pretends not to care.
"What?" Dean roars, spinning around and hefting the TV remote at the floor like a toddler having a tantrum – what? He can act as immature as he wants, it's not like Sam's gonna give him shit about it. In fact, Sam's just lost the right to ever give Dean shit about anything ever again, because there's no way Dean could ever do anything this... this... damn it, there really needs to be a stronger word than moronic or foolish because they just don't cut it in this situation.
"What the hell do you want, Sam? Some freakin' smack? Some Big H? Fairy dust? Wanna go 'chase the dragon'? You think I'm gonna un-cuff you so that you can go kill some more brain cells? Get real, retard. You apparently don't have as many to spare as I thought."
Sam's face crumples at Dean's glare – Dean has the feeling that even The Great John Winchester would falter at the look on his face right now, if it reflects even a fraction of the anger he's got burning away at his insides - and... damn, but the kid looks awful. Like, terminal illness kind of awful. His hands are shaking like an old man with, what's it called, Parkinston or Packinson or, whatever, it's not important, and his hair's all damp with sweat and hanging over his eyes.
Sam's actually sitting on the floor next to the bed – God knows why, Dean would've thought the bed would be more comfortable – so his chained hand is held up by his shoulder and his other arm is clenched around his stomach like he's just been stabbed, and he's freaking rocking back and forth like some cliched mental patient.
At Dean's words he curls into himself even more, legs drawn up to his chest, and rests his head on his knees. It takes a moment for Dean to decipher the mumbling into words.
"...sorry, 'm sorry, Dean, I didn' mean... 'm sorry, please don't..."
Sam trails off with a sob and, God help him, Dean feels half his anger melt away at the noise, no matter how hard he wants to hold onto his righteous rage, because the kid really does look like utter shit and sound like utter shit and Dean doesn't know much about heroin withdrawal – he never thought he'd need to know much about heroin withdrawal – but he guesses that Sam probably feels like complete and utter shit, and it goes against Dean's basic instinct to ignore the damn kid when he's suffering.
"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters, shoving himself up off the bed and stalking to the bathroom. Grudgingly, he wets a washcloth with cold water and stomps his way back to Sam.
"C'm'ere," he says, crouching down and tilting Sam's head up. Efficiently, he wipes away the sweat and tears and snot while Sam stares at him like he's not sure he believes what he's seeing.
"Y'want some water?"
Sam hesitates, then nods and Dean heads to the bathroom again to fill up a cup, then brings it back and helps Sam drink when his epileptic hands threaten to drench them both.
"Handcuffs stay on," Dean says gruffly.
Sam looks at him, all wide-eyed and damn reminiscent of that innocent floppy-haired kid he used to be and how the hell did they end up here?
"I'm gonna kick your ass all the way to next year for this when you're better," Dean warns, in case Sam thinks he's gotten away with this ('cause, you know, the kid's a god damned idiot so Dean wouldn't put it past him).
"'M sorry," Sam says, and Dean thinks, damn straight, you better be fucking sorry, but he just sits himself down next to his moron of a little brother and pulls the shivering dumbass into his lap so he can put his arm around him.
"Shut up, Sam."